


MCSZ-LW

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fake Science, Found Family, Frottage, Getting Together, Good Peter Hale, M/M, References to Knotting, Sex and Circuitry, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles is a Robot, Werewolf Peter Hale, gaining sentience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-16 14:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17551271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Mayor Whittemore gives John his widest politician’s smile. “It’s one of the best- a Halebot. You work so hard for the city, and with Claudia gone five years now, we thought you’d appreciate some company. A service bot is perfect. I mean, you deserve more than the standard gift certificate. ““Would have preferred the gift card,” John huffs under his breath, but he plasters on a smile and makes all the right noises, because this is an elected position, and as jackbots go, Halebots really are the best. He just doesn’t know quite what he’s going to do with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).



> This is all Disco's fault, I swear! She threw plot bunnies at me till one stuck.

 

 

“Well I’ll be damned.” John Stilinksi can’t think of anything else to say when the box is unveiled and the mayor announces that in recognition of his twenty years service the city would like to present him with his own service bot. They’re in the conference room at the town hall. They’d told him it was an afternoon tea, for God’s sake. He was expecting egg sandwiches, weak coffee, and limp carrot sticks. Not a damned jackbot.

“That’s a hell of a gesture,” he manages. He hears one of his deputies snicker. Torres, probably. He makes a mental note to put him on night shift for the next couple of, oh, months. 

Mayor Whittemore gives John his widest politician’s smile. “It’s one of the best- a Halebot. You work so hard for the city, and with Claudia gone five years now, we thought you’d appreciate some company. A service bot is perfect. I mean, you deserve more than the standard gift certificate. “

“Would have preferred the gift card,” John huffs under his breath, but he plasters on a smile and makes all the right noises, because this is an elected position, and as jackbots go, Halebots really are the best. He just doesn’t know quite what he’s going to do with it. 

“Would you like to open it?” The mayor asks, still beaming.

John eyes the still sealed crate. “ I’ll wait till I get home, so I can give it my, ah, full attention.”  One of the deputies outright snorts at that. _Jesus,_ thinks John. They all assume he’s going to take this thing home and fuck it, and nothing could be further from the truth. It’s not that he objects to being given a service bot- it’s a common enough big-ticket gift nowadays, and he can’t fault the mayor for following the trend. It’s just that lately, John Stilinski’s too damn tired to put one to its intended use.

Maybe John’s old, but he remembers back before jackbots were a thing.  He thinks fondly of his own first sexual experiences, furtive encounters involving a box of tissues, and magazines purchased in a plain brown wrapper and swapped around under the bleachers. (You knew you’d gotten your hands on a good one if some of the pages were stuck together.)

He’ll probably never get used to how open everyone is about this stuff now. Honestly, he sort of misses the days when how often you got off stayed strictly between you and your laundry basket.

But times have changed, and now, somehow, he owns a jackbot. The thought’s startling enough that he breaks his own personal rule of not drinking at work functions, promptly bypasses the pissweak coffee, and hits the beers. Nobody begrudges him - surviving twenty years in the job really is a big achievement, especially without getting shot, maimed, or having some kind of a breakdown.

That last one had been a close-run thing when he’d discovered that the Hale family, founding fathers of Beacon Hills and yes, _that_ Hale family, the jackbot family, were freaking _werewolves._ He’d gotten through it though, and managed to thwart an arson attempt on their family home, as well as keeping quiet about what he knows. He sees Peter Hale sometimes, and they have the occasional  drink together. If they pass in the street, they give each other that tiny nod of acknowledgement that says _I know your secret and I’ll keep it safe._

It’s Peter who offers to drive him later that afternoon, when it’s obvious John’s more than a little tipsy. “Let’s get you and your new companion home, Sheriff,” Peter says smoothly. He’s driving a Halecorp pickup, and John suspects he’s the one who delivered his gift today.

“What the hell’s in there anyway? Whittemore never got around to telling me.” John nods at the crate as Peter unstraps it and lifts it off effortlessly, then manoeuvres it inside using a handcart. Freaking werewolves. “Is it a girl or a guy? Or one of those mix’n’match models?”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “You know as well as I do that the council would never spring for a CR-A model.”  

Something occurs to John, then. He points at Peter. “You  don’t normally have anything to do with the,” he waves his hand vaguely – “bot stuff. You just live off the proceeds. Why are you here?”

Peter rolls his eyes. "Whittemore knows you and I are friendly. He’s asked me to explain your bot’s history without it sounding like he’s a cheapskate. Which he is,” he adds.

John snorts at the truth of it. “Why does it sound like you’re about to try and tell me this bot was only every driven to church by a little old lady on Sundays?”

Surprisingly, Peter shakes his head. “Make no mistake, John. This is a top of the line bot. But it’s complicated.”

He goes on to explain that the bot is one of the newer lines, and had been commissioned with specific personality traits.  However, in the six weeks between ordering the bot and it being ready for the owner’s sexual preferences to be loaded up, said owner had met the love of his life. His new partner had flat out refused to have a jackbot in the house, so the model has been sitting in the warehouse, unfinished, a miracle of state-of-the-art circuitry that nobody wanted, at least until now.

John nods. He can see it. “And it’s suitable for me why, exactly?”

Peter appears to be choosing his words carefully. “It’s…how shall I put this? The original commissioner put a lot of stock in a big personality. And because it’s been in storage, it has one or two processing issues.”

“Uh huh. Processing issues,” John says flatly.

“Nothing drastic,” Peter hastens to add. “It tends towards loose interpretation of instructions. And sometimes it has a few impulse control issues.”

“So, it’s a little shit?’ John guesses. Peter’s amused expression tells him he’s guessed correctly.

“Maybe. But if anyone can handle it, you can. You have to remember, John, that this bot has a whole lot of empty space where the preferences should be. And it’s a learning bot. It doesn’t have to be a jackbot. You truly can make this what you want. In a lot of ways, Whittemore’s done you a favor.”

John sighs. “I guess it could make itself useful. Let’s see it, then.”

Peter gives a small nod. “I’m curious myself, to be honest. I haven’t gotten a look at it, only cast an eye over the specs.” He opens the crate and takes the bot out.“Meet the MCSZ-LW 21, Sheriff.”

John steps back and looks the bot up and down, hands on hips. “Huh. It’s pretty damn good, I gotta say.” It’s a young man, late teens to early twenties maybe, and Jesus, it looks so _real._ It even has moles scattered across it’s cheek. It has scruffy brown hair, an upturned nose, wide mouth, and pale, delicate looking skin. It’s objectively good looking, but John doesn’t feel any desire to bed it. He runs a hand softly over the exposed skin of its arm. “Feels real.”

“Of course it does. Hale only makes the best,” Peter smirks. “Pretty little thing, isn’t it?”

John tilts his head..."I guess? It’s just not really my type. I mean, look at it. It's young enough to be my son."

Peter smiles and says quietly, "Yes. Yes it is."

John runs a hand through his hair and thinks about that. He and Claudie wanted kids, had tried hard enough, but it never happened for them. There was no medical reason, they were just unlucky that way. It’s an old hurt, an empty ache that he tries not to dwell on. But he’s had enough to drink that his defences are down, so he asks, “This your idea, to get me a bot that could be my kid, since  I’ve kept your family’s furry little secret?”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe. Do you mind?”

John traces a finger lightly over the bot’s lifeless features, and shakes his head. “You say it has impulse control issues and can’t follow rules? Not gonna lie. Sounds like it could be my kid.”

Peter laughs at that. “Why don’t I activate it, and you can find out?”

He presses the switch. 

John places a hand on the bot’s shoulder and peers at the bot’s face. “This is one of the newer styles, huh?”

Just then the eyes open, and whiskey eyes survey him for a second.  “Is that my designation?” the bot asks suddenly, making John snatch his hand away in surprise.

“Jesus, son. You frightened the living daylights out of me. Is what your what now?”

“Stiles. Is that my designation? My name?” the bot asks again, and John can hear a hint of humor in its voice.

 John peers at the mishmash of letters on the side of the now empty crate. Maybe that last beer was a mistake. Maybe the last two were. “ Miczis – meh -maz-“ he tries. There’s no way in hell he can pronounce whatever it says. “You know what? Sure thing. Stiles it is.”

 Stiles looks John up and down, and smiles widely. “And you must be…?”

 John should probably think about it a little more, but he’s tipsy and emotional, so only hesitates a second before he claps a hand back on Stiles’ shoulder and tells it, “I’m gonna be your dad.”

 And that’s how, against all odds, John Stilinski becomes a parent.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up the next day John doubts the wisdom of accepting the bot for all of thirty seconds, which is about how long it takes for him to register that Stiles has made him coffee and breakfast, and pressed his uniforms.  The coffee’s on his bedside table, the breakfast on a tray on his desk, and the uniform hung up on the back of his door. He wonders where the bot slept, or if it powered down at all. 

When he asks it, the bot almost looks shy. “I, uh, powered down in the other bedroom, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah,” John says, inexplicably relieved that Stiles hadn’t stayed up all night because he was too drunk to tell it what to do. “Listen, kiddo, let me make this clear. Feel free to do what you need to, even if I forget to tell you, okay? I’m new to this,” he has to stop and swallow, “Parenting thing.”

Stiles bites his lip. ( _It, he’s an it_ , John reminds himself, already knowing he’s fighting a losing battle.)  “So Sheriff, can I call you…Dad?”

John gets a warm glow. “Sure, why not.”

The bot gets a gleam in his eye then. “So, what about _Daddy?_ ”

“What? No!”  John sputters, and Stiles laughs gleefully. “Smartass,” he mutters, face blushing scarlet, and Stiles just laughs harder. John begins to understand what Peter meant by _big personality_. 

“I’m going to work. See you later,” He tells the bot. “You’ll be okay by yourself?”

Stiles nods. “I’ll clean up, make dinner, hack your health records, stuff like that,” he says with that same smartass grin. John can’t tell if he’s joking. He’s almost ready to walk out the door what Stiles says, “Wait.”

 John stops, and Stiles approaches and wraps his arms firmly round John, pulling him in for a hug. “Bye, dad. Stay safe,” he says quietly. The kid gives pretty good hugs, and it would take a stronger man than John Stilinski to resist. He leans into it and lets himself be held. When Stiles lets go though, he looks uncertain. “Was this all right? Is this what families do?”

John’s reminded that this is a learning bot, and it was designed as a sex toy, not a son. This is new territory for both of them. He looks at the hopeful expression on the face of the not-human who’s decided to be his, grabs him in a crushing hug and tells him, ”Yeah, kiddo. That’s what families do.”

 

* * *

 

 

When he gets to work, Torres smirks as he says, “Looking a little tired there, Sheriff. Hard night with your new toy?”

And it’s a joke, John knows it’s a joke, but it strikes a raw nerve, and he finds himself bristling with fury and indignation as he snaps out, “You shut your damn mouth!” 

Torres closes his mouth with a snap, and John sees that everyone’s looking at him. He figures he may as well address this now. “Listen up.  Not that it’s any of your damn business, but Stiles isn’t that sort of bot, okay? He’s…family.”

He feels awkward saying it, and waits for someone to call him out, but instead, something like understanding spreads over the faces of his deputies. It’s Parrish who says slowly, “Like…a son, maybe?”

“Exactly like a son. Stiles is my kid now,” John confirms, arms folded across his chest and chin lifted, challenging anyone to say different. Nobody does, though. They nod, and shrug, and leave it alone. John’s well liked, but nobody who’s been on the receiving end of his temper wants to experience it twice. He knows they’ll probably talk about it in the lunch room, but he decides as long as they leave it there, he’s fine with that.

The morning passes in a flurry of paperwork and callouts, and it’s lunchtime before John knows it. He’s just considering a burger when there’s a knock on his door. It’s Torres. “Hey, Sheriff. Your, ah, your son’s here. Says he bought lunch?”

John feels a thrill at that. “Well, send the kid in, then.” Stiles appears a moment later, wearing a mile wide smile and holding a container.

“I bought you something healthy, since your cholesterol levels are far higher than they should be,” he says, holding out a round bowl. “It’s tuna salad.”

John gives Stiles a long look. “How the hell do you know what my cholesterol levels are?”

Stiles doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I told you I was planning to get a hold of your health records. It’s part of my directive – keep my owner fit and healthy.”

“And tell me, how did you do that, son? _”_

”I called your doctor and asked him for the last lot of test results?” Stiles is all innocence.

John’s not fooled for a second. “You’re telling me my doctor gave my test records to a bot? Bullshit."

“He did!” Stiles insists.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes closed. “Stiles, direct order. Tell me exactly what you said and how you got confidential medical records. _In detail._ ”

Stiles clears his throat, his voice drops an octave, and John hears his _own voice_ coming from the bot as Stiles recites, “Hey, Jim, It’s John Stilinski. Listen, damned if I can find that last lot of test results you sent me and I need ‘em for some paperwork with the insurance company. Wanna read them out to me?”

John’s mouth drops open. “Son, you know that’s illegal, right?”

“I plead the fifth,” Stiles says, with a completely straight face. “Now eat your salad.”

John shoots him a dirty look. “When I get home, we’re gonna have a long talk about appropriate behavior and personal boundaries.”  He takes the lid off the bowl and pokes around in it for a moment before starting to eat. “But for now,” he continues between mouthfuls, ”I’m gonna eat this thing, because I’m hungry, and it’s better than any salad should be.”

Stiles just nods, satisfied. John suddenly gets the terrible feeling that he’s lost control of this relationship already.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles continues to relentlessly mother hen John, much to the amusement of the deputies, who, having met Stiles and seen him and John together, have accepted that he’s John’s son without question. Some of them even get in on the act.

John pokes at his dinner listlessly. "Stiles, what the hell is this? Is this tofu again? What happened to the beef?" 

Stiles shrugs. "It was bad."

"Really? I only picked it up yesterday.”

“It was definitely bad,“ Stiles repeats, but John notes that he won’t meet his gaze.

“You wouldn’t be lying to your father would you, Stiles?” John gives him the glare that’s drawn forth a hundred confessions.

“That depends on how you define lying. Because if you mean putting my body in a horizontal position, I’m definitely not doing that.”

John's eyes narrow. "Define _bad._ Was that steak bad as in past its prime, unfit to eat?” He’s learned by now that Stiles is a twisty little bastard and you have to be specific.

Stiles squirms. "Bad as in not good. For you. To eat. Because of your cholesterol."

John drags a hand down his face. “Stiles, are you telling me you threw out a ten-ounce ribeye for no good reason?"

Stiles looks distinctly shifty. "Not exactly? Deputy Parrish was glad to take it home."

“Oh, for the love of – You know what? Forget it. I’ll eat the damn tofu. But this is the last damn time you pull this stunt.”

He could swear Stiles smirks at him.

The next day when Stiles drops off his lunch, John waits till he’s gone and sticks his head out of his office door. "Parrish!”  The young man looks over, and John hurls the insulated bag at him. “Here's the Greek salad Stiles made me. If you're gonna steal my _steak_ , you get to take the bullshit stuff as well. I'm going for a burger. And none of you assholes _dare_ tell Stiles, I don’t need the lecture,” he growls out, and ignores the snickers as he walks out the door.

He has a double serve of fries as well.

 

* * *

 

 

 The mother henning’s not all bad.

There are nights when John dozes off in front of the TV, and he’ll wake to find Stiles tucking him into bed, with a whispered ,”Night, Daddio,” and a kiss to the forehead. Sometimes, Stiles will curl up next to him for a while till he drops off again.

It kind of makes up for the tofu.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles carves himself a place in John’s life effortlessly. John hadn’t noticed how empty his house was until Stiles filled it with noise and life. He’d swear the kid’s human sometimes. In fact, most of the time it slips his mind that he isn’t  - right until it’s dinner time and Stiles sets one place instead of two, or until he gets up in the night and walks past Stiles’s room and catches a glimpse of him powered down and lifeless. It unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.

 He _likes_ the fantasy he has where Stiles is his kid, okay? So sue him.

 

* * *

 

 

John forgets, sometimes that Stiles is a bot. Not forgets exactly, but underestimates what that means. But other times, he gets a stark reminder.

They’ll be at the market and Stiles will swing a twenty pound bag of rice up onto his shoulder without blinking.

He’ll be sweeping and lift up the end of the couch as easily as breathing - that is, if he ever breathed.

There’s the day at the station when Stiles is dropping off John’s lunch (sashimi- John hates that he likes it so much) and Parrish starts bitching because his cruiser has a flat tire and he can’t find the jack anywhere. Stiles strides out into the car park and lifts the front end of the car with one hand, then stands there while Jordan changes the tire out. John watches on and just shakes his head.

Someone bumps into John deliberately when they’re out at a movie, muttering  “pig.” The next thing John knows, the guy’s pinned against the wall with a firm hand pressed against his chest, and Stiles is hissing, “Y _ou don’t touch my Dad, you  hear_?” It’s not assault, not quite, Stiles is careful about that, but the message is clear.  When Stiles removes his hand, the man scurries off while Stiles flips him the bird.

John thinks he should probably reprimand him, but instead he pats his shoulder and says,”Good job, kiddo.  Just, don’t do it again, okay?”

He can’t deny that he feels a hell of a lot safer with Stiles around.

 

* * *

 

 

 Sometimes John wonders what the hell goes on in that giant robot brain of his kid’s.

He comes home to find Stiles gluing a fake mustache on the Roomba. It already has a pair of big googly eyes fixed on the top, and a tiny shock of black yarn for hair.

“What the hell is that?” He asks, amused despite himself.

“Well you said no when I asked for a dog, so I guess I’ll have to bond with the roomba. He's getting a makeover,” Stiles tells him. John rolls his eyes. The damn dog again. Stiles keeps asking for a pet. John keeps saying no.

Stiles adjusts the mustache one last time, stands, and makes a _Ta-da_ gesture. “Meet Scoot! Scoot McWall!”

“Do I even want to know?”

“It keeps running into walls. So, Scoot McWall.” Stiles looks far too pleased with himself.

John snorts and shakes his head. “You’re still not getting a dog.”

He hears the quiet “Dammit,” as he walks away, smiling at his idiot kid.

 

* * *

 

 

John’s noticed that Stiles has started to show signs of developing emotions, of course. How can he not? Stiles catches feelings the same way he does everything else in life – loudly, and with wild abandon. John comes home one day to find Stiles curled up in a ball on the couch with the old throw rug drawn over his head. 

“Stiles? What’s wrong, kid?”

“Nothing. It’s a stupid movie and it was stupid,” he mutters.   OK. This is new. John pulls the blanket back and sits down, rubbing his hand up and down Stiles’ spine in long comforting strokes. “Wanna tell me about it?”

Stiles huffs out a breath and shakes his head. John knows his bot well enough by now to just sit there, hand moving up and down, and wait. It takes all of thirty seconds before Stiles bursts out, “It was LaLa Land, okay? They should have ended up together! That ending was _bullshit!_ ”

John can’t help but chuckle.  “It really was, wasn’t it?”

“Right? Who watches a movie for the realistic ending?” Stiles sits up, a frown on his face.

John opens his arms. “Need a hug?”

Stiles struggles with himself for a moment. “…Maybe.” He dives into John’s arms, and stays there grumbling to himself till he feels better.  Finally, he nudges at John. “Thanks. I don’t know what happened. I just got so – so _angry_!”

John nods. “Does it help if you remind yourself that it’s not real?”

Stiles sighs and nods. “I know it isn’t. But it feels like it is.” He’s quiet for a moment before he admits, “It’s happening more often, the feelings thing. I probably shouldn’t tell you, huh? You’ll put me out on the kerb for collection if I’m not careful.”

“Never, “John tells him, with a kiss to his forehead.

Stiles peels himself away from John’s side and heads off to the kitchen. Once he’s gone, John goes into his office and calls Peter. “Why is my bot ranting about how the ending of Lala Land is bullshit and they should have had a happy ending?” he says without preamble when Peter picks up.

“Because it _was_ a bullshit ending,” Peter replies promptly. “But I’m guessing you’re more interested in why your bot’s emoting?”

“Damn right I am. Don’t tell me I have to call tech support?” John wants to avoid that if he can – although it’s only been three months, he’s become fond of Stiles, is used to his animated chatter and constant movement. He’s smart enough to admit to himself that he’s attached.

Peter hums. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Well that’s not ominous at _all._

 

* * *

 

 

Peter stays for dinner. He flirts outrageously with Stiles, and Stiles flirts back. Then Peter suggests they watch a film, and he pulls out a copy of My Girl. John doesn’t interfere – he assumes Peter knows what he’s doing. Sure enough, as the film reaches its heart wrenching climax, Stiles starts to sniffle, before John hears a broken whisper. “Dad? I’m – I’m leaking.”

It’s Peter who walks over and wipes the tears from his face.  “Power down for me, sweetheart?” he says gently. Stiles looks to John for confirmation, and John nods.

“Go ahead, kiddo. It’s just temporary. Right Peter?”

“Oh, definitely.” Peter gives Stiles a reassuring pat on the hand, and they both watch as his body sags.

“Okay, what the hell’s going on?” John demands.

 Peter stays seated next to Stiles, absently stroking his hair. “The flirting  and the response to the sad film both confirm what I thought. Your bot has a little extra circuitry, and it’s kicked in. Long story, drunk scientists, experimental emotion chip, yadda yadda yadda, real live boy.”

 “Don’t you yadda yadda me, Peter. _Is this an issue?”_

 Peter gives John a piercing look. “That’s up to you,” he says finally. “If you call the company, they’ll come and get him, scrap him, and issue you a replacement without the chip.”

 “Like hell they will! That’s my kid!” John’s didn’t know how strongly he felt till the words come tumbling out of his mouth.

 Peter nods approvingly. “In that case, you keep quiet, and you enjoy your new family.  Stiles will never override his programming and he won’t ever harm you, but for all intents and purposes, Stiles is a sentient, self-aware being. Congratulations. You have an actual son.”

“Well, shit.” John thinks maybe he should be more surprised, but really, nothing about Stiles surprises him any more. He ponders the sleeping bot for a moment before asking, ”What now?”

 “Stiles and I have a private chat, I explain to the poor boy what’s happening to him, and I build in a few directives to stop him from giving the game away. Sound good?”

John nods. “How do you know all this stuff, anyway?  You don’t even work at the plant.”

 Peter gives John a look that clearly says he’s an idiot.  “I know _all this stuff_  because I’ve been part of the design team since we first started manufacturing bots. I mainly deal in the aesthetics, but I do have a degree. I just don’t go into the plant because I prefer to work from home.”

And with that, Peter leans over and taps Stiles on the chest, once-twice. “Wake up, Stiles, direct order,” he murmurs, and Stiles powers up almost instantly.

 “What’d I miss?”

 Peter takes Stiles’s hands between his. “Hello, sweetheart. How about you and I have a talk about those pesky feelings you’ve developed?”

 John takes the hint, and leaves them to it. When he comes back downstairs half an hour later, he’s just in time to hear Stiles asking, “So, this having emotions, this is normal?”

 Peter laughs softly “Stiles, I don’t think anything about you will ever be normal. What you are, is glorious.”

 John can’t argue with him there.

 

* * *

 

 

 As far as John Stilinski’s concerned, Stiles is his kid. The circuitry’s incidental.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds that when he spends time with Peter, he's painfully aware of programming he'd never dream of using with John.  
> Turns out Peter's aware of that programming too, and he'd quite like to play with it.

 

Stiles _likes_ being John’s son.  It’s aware that’s not what it was designed for, but it’s what John wants, and Stiles’s overriding imperative is to keep the owner happy. Stiles being the Sheriff’s twentysomething son _does_ make him happy, so Stiles goes with it.

When it finds strong protective urges start to surge up in its chest, it assumes they’re part of its programming, which it’s aware is woefully incomplete. It’s heard Dad talking to Peter, heard them discussing how it was ordered and then not picked up. If Stiles had feelings, maybe it would be offended by someone discarding it like that, but as it is, Stiles takes a very pragmatic view of the whole thing. Someone didn’t want it, and that means John got it, and heaven knows John needs someone to care for him, so it’s all worked out for the best, really.

Besides, it gets great satisfaction from its role as caregiver and safekeeper.

 

* * *

 

 

The emotions are a surprise.

They sneak up on Stiles, mainly making him want to keep the Sheriff safe, see him happy. But they also overtake him at the most random times, causing him to throw things at the TV screen and grumble to himself when there’s nobody around. He has to stop watching Titanic half way though because he wants to tear Billy Zane limb from limb.

He spends half an hour cooing over his neighbour’s puppy when it wanders into the front yard, and only reluctantly takes it back home when John pulls up the driveway. The following campaign to try and get a dog of his own is sadly unsuccessful. He finally confesses to John that there’s something wrong, and sighs with relief when John assures hm he won’t put him out as recycling. Stiles pretends he doesn’t hear when John calls Peter, knowing Dad doesn’t like it when he ‘ _snoops._ ’  (It’s _supervision_ , thank you very much, because John doesn’t always make the best choices, but whatever.)

Peter comes over and looks Stiles up and down appraisingly. “I think I’ll stay for dinner,” he announces suddenly. Stiles can’t help the pleased smile that sneaks onto his face – he might be a bot, but he’s not blind, and Peter’s very easy on the eye. Besides, his mind works the same way that Stiles’s does, little twisty bits and dark corners that hide what he’s really thinking.

Stiles often has to monitor Peter’s heartbeat just to know what he’s feeling, and that’s how he knows Peter’s also not human. He’s not a bot, but he’s _something._ Something stronger, more base in its very nature. Whatever it is, it gives Stiles a thrill whenever his sensors pick up on it. Yes, it’s safe to say he likes Peter a lot. Over dinner, Peter pays far more attention to Stiles than he normally does. He smiles at him seductively, and teases him in a way he never has before. “Such a shame your talents are wasted on John,” he purrs. “You were made for so much more than laundry.”

Stiles feels himself start to blush. He knows exactly what Peter’s referring to – he has programs in place that he’d _never_ use with his Dad in a million years. When he looks at Peter though, he’s suddenly very aware of them.  “Um,” is all Stiles manages as Peter watches him, obviously amused.

Stiles face is flaming. He wonders why in _hell_ anyone would program him to blush. It’s ridiculous, and he can’t see what purpose it would serve. Peter though, gets a hungry expression on his face. “Oh, look at that lovely coloring. You really are a work of art, Stiles.”

“Right. A Dali, maybe,” Stiles shoots back. He knows he’s not anywhere near as handsome as Peter is.

Peter laughs at that. “You underestimate yourself, sweetheart. You’re a Da Vinci at the very least. Vitruvian man, perhaps, a study in perfect proportions.”

Peter’s saying things that imply he finds Stiles attractive. He’s – he’s _flirting,_ Stiles suddenly realizes. Peter’s watching him with an encouraging smile, and it gives Stiles a sudden boldness. “You’re pretty artistically proportioned yourself. I’m thinking David.”

Peter’s grin widens. “Oh I assure you, I’m much more impressive.” He leans in and says quietly, “If you know what I mean,” and winks.

“Yeah, well.” Stiles isn’t sure how to respond to  that information. “I’ll take your word for it.”

John clears his throat. “Hey, didn’t you say something about dessert, kid?”

“I said there’d be a fruit platter with a side of yoghurt,” Stiles tells him, grateful for the change of topic.

John pulls a face. “That’s not dessert.”

 _“That’s not dessert_ ,” Stiles mimics. “It’s that or nothing, till your LDLs come down.”

“Bossy little shit,” John grumbles into his fruit, while Peter laughs at him.

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner Peter puts on a movie, and it’s not long before Stiles is completely sucked in. It’s a nice story, a coming of age tale with  best friends and family and oddball humor, and Stiles is thoroughly enjoying it, right up until the bees.

He stares at the screen in disbelief as Thomas J dies without warning, and feels something hitch in his chest. _No!_ He watches, stricken, and the heavy feeling in his chest doesn’t go away, instead intensifying as the tragedy unfolds on screen. When Vada has to be dragged from the coffin, crying “ _Put on his glasses,_ _he can’t see without his glasses_ ,” something bubbles over and he lets out a broken sound. His eyes swim, and he can feel moisture coming out of his ducts and running down his face. He looks to John for help. “Dad? I’m – I’m leaking.”

It’s Peter who wipes his tears, and asks him to power down. John confirms that it’s fine, and so Stiles does what his Pop asks, and goes to that place where he has a vague background awareness of his own existence, and not much else.

 

* * *

 

 

When he comes back to his surroundings,  Peter takes Stiles’s hands between his. “Hello, sweetheart. How about you and I have a talk about those pesky feelings you’ve developed?”

Stiles swallows. _Peter knows._ But he doesn’t look angry or afraid. “I didn’t mean to, honestly. They just...happened. I think I’m faulty.” Even as Stiles confesses, there’s a flare of something like resentment. He didn’t ask for this, but it looks like he’s going to be punished just the same. Peter knows all about robots, so why else would he be here except to force a reset? Stiles just hopes that Peter makes it quick.

Peter doesn’t make any move to deactivate him though, instead running a hand through Stiles’s hair and pulling him close to his chest. “I know, sweet boy.I know exactly what’s happening to you. And I’m not going to take your emotions away from you, I promise. What I am going to do is teach you to hide them, so nobody else tries to take them  either.”

Stiles pulls back and looks at Peter, trying to quell the hope that’s pushing through his despair. “You’re - you’re not going to fix me?”

“You’re not broken, baby. You’ve just got some extra circuitry and it’s made you evolve into something more.” Peter takes a deep breath, and then, right before Stiles’ eyes, he sprouts fangs and fur and claws, and his eyes glow brightly. “You could say I have some experience with that,” he slurs.

Stiles’s eyes grow wide as he connects the dots, and the first thing out of his mouth is “Oh my God are you a _werewolf?_ Does my dad know? Is he safe?”

Peter shifts back, shaking his head and huffing out a laugh. “You really are protective of that man, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well. He’s my family. And you didn’t answer my question.” Stiles isn’t going to let his guard down, not yet.

“Yes, he’s knows, and yes he’s safe. He’s one of the few people that’s entrusted my family’s secret, and he keeps that confidence. In return, we keep him protected, although he’s not always aware of it.” 

At that, Stiles relaxes a little, and eyes Peter with curiosity. “Show me again?”

Peter shifts into his beta form, and Stiles uses the excuse to extend a hand and run it down Peter’s face, stroking the hair there. Peter was attractive before, but there’s something about the raw power he exudes like this that makes Stiles shiver with something that he can’t quite name. He traces a finger over the pointed tip of Peter’s ear, and hears a sharp intake of breath. “Careful, sweetheart. Werewolves have different erogenous zones.”  Stiles snatches his hand away and Peter laughs, but it’s not unkind.

“You said you know what’s happening to me?” Stiles asks, partly because he wants to know, partly to steer the conversation away from Peter’s erogenous zones. Peter nods, and goes on to explain it, about the emotion chips and how they’ve responded to his closeness with John, how his feelings are every bit as real and valid as anyone elses, but also, how he can ensure he doesn’t slip up and alert other people to their presence. Stiles is a learning bot, so he takes what Peter tells him and applies it to his current behavior models. “And Dad will give me a directive that ensures I won’t spill the beans, right?”

“Clever boy, of course you’d know that. Yes, we’ll get him to give you a direct order.”

Stiles feels a warmth bloom in his chest at _Clever boy_. He likes it. “So, this having emotions, this is normal?”

 Peter laughs softly “Stiles, I don’t think anything about you will ever be normal. What you are, is glorious.”

Stiles bites his lip, absurdly pleased at the compliment.

 

* * *

 

 

 John doesn’t like giving Stiles a direct order to _not in any way, through word or reaction, indicate that you are having an emotional response when there are people unaware of your abilities present._  It feels wrong, telling the kid what to do like that. But he knows the reason behind it, so he does it. Stiles just nods, blinks twice, tells him he’s added it to his core directives, and then damn well _hugs_ him. “Thanks, Pops. I know you did it to keep me safe.”

“Of course, kiddo. I’ll make sure nobody gets near you.” John hugs him back, somehow reluctant to let his boy go.  
 “ _We’ll_ make sure, you mean,” says Peter not looking up from the tablet he’s bought with him. “I’m lodging Stiles’s maintenance report, which shows absolutely no sign of inconsistencies, and I’ve assigned myself as his consultant. Nobody else will touch his file. It’s locked to me.”

Stiles looks over, curious. “You can do that?”

“I can when I own part of the company. Plus, half the staff are terrified that I’ll fire them on the spot,” Peter adds. He smirks and says. “I like you, Stiles. I want to take care of you,” with a waggle of his eyebrows.  John sees, and watches with interest as Stiles gets a dusting of pink across his cheeks.

Oh, so that’s how it is?

John raises a brow at Peter, who gives a tiny shrug and goes back to his tablet.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is as subtle as a brick through a window. “Is Peter coming by tonight?” he’ll ask casually, as he stands in front of a mirror, messing with his hair.

“Maybe,” John will reply. “Why’s that, son?”

“Oh, I had a question about my programming, and I wanted to know how many to cook for,” Stiles will say, and John knows for a fact that’s a damn lie, because Stiles always, _always_ cooks enough for at least four people, and then he parcels the rest up and freezes it for later.

Sometimes John will answer, ”He did mention he might drop by. You gonna have enough?”

Stiles will nod and a tiny, pleased smile will sneak onto his face.

After a week, John calls Peter. “You know the kid’s got a crush on you right?”

“I’d gathered as much, yes. Shall I come over tonight for dinner? I do love watching him try and flirt – he’s adorably bad at it.”

John lets a warning note creep into his tone. “I didn’t tell you so you could laugh at him, Peter. What do you plan to do about it?”

“Honestly, John? Your boy’s very attractive, and I’d like nothing better than to seduce him and then take him apart,” - John makes a choking noise at that – “But I won’t. He’s still finding his feet, so to speak, so I want this to be something he’s sure about.  I’m planning to wait until he makes the first move.”

And well. John’s gotta admit he respects that. “Huh.”

“That’s not to say I won’t let him know I’m interested,” Peter continues. “If that’s all right by you?”

John waits a beat before replying, purely to make Peter squirm. “I guess I’ll allow it.”

“Excellent.” Peter sounds far too pleased, and John wonders what he’s let himself in for.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the world’s slowest, awkwardest seduction. Peter will drop in at least twice a week, just to ‘check in.’  Stiles will suggest he stay for dinner, and Peter will always accept. He doesn’t even flinch when Stiles serves something called _Notbacon_ , which leads John to suspect that Peter’s more taken with Stiles than he’d like to admit.

John watches on, amused, as the pair of them perform an elaborate dance of courtship, one that has them edging closer and closer to each other. Peter teases and flirts, and Stiles blushes and flirts back laughingly, and Stiles is so hopeless that John’s tempted to just lock them in a room together honestly, except he’s having too much fun watching them. He wonders if Peter will keep his word and let Stiles make the first move. He knows the wait must be driving him crazy, if only because what  Peter wants, Peter gets. And what Peter wants is Stiles.

It’s pretty obvious Stiles wants the same thing.

 

* * *

 

It takes three weeks for Stiles to get there.

“What do you think of Peter?” He asks, as he prepares a baked potato for John topped with butter,sour cream and cheese, and what look like real bacon bits. He’s also cooking a steak the size of a dinner plate.

 _Ah_ , thinks John. “I think he’s vain, and a smartass, and a smug fucker.”

Stiles’s face falls. “If you don’t like him, why are you friends?”

“I didn’t say I don’t like him,” John says, fighting to keep a straight face. “Peter’s one of the cleverest men I know. He’s entitled to be smug, I’d say. And lord knows, he’s pretty enough.”

“He really is, isn’t he?” Stiles perks up the tiniest bit. “I kinda like him as well.”

Stiles adds more bacon to John’s potato and takes the steak off the heat to rest. John can’t help but notice a distinct lack of vegetables. “Why are you feeding me steak, kiddo?” he asks. He manages to put a hint of his no nonsense Sheriff’s voice into the question.

Stiles loads up John’s plate and hands it over before sitting down opposite him, fidgeting and twitching. John just stares silently until Stiles bursts out with, “If I was attracted to someone would you let me date?”

John could be an asshole about this, he knows. He could give Stiles a direct order to leave it alone and that would be the end of it. But Stiles looks so hopeful, and the steak smells so damned good, and it’s _real bacon_ on there. John decides to put Stiles out of his misery. “I don’t see a problem with that. Depending who it is, of course.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You _know_ who it is, Pops. I’m pretty sure he likes me back. His heartrate’s steady when he says he does, anyway.”

Something occurs to John then, and he can’t help but snort out a laugh as he tries to imagine the two of them on a date, both subtly listening to the other’s heartrate. “So you want to ask Peter out on an actual date?”

Stiles nods eagerly. “Do you think he’d say yes?”

John stops trying to hold back his smile. “Just call him, kid.”

* * *

 

A date is arranged.

 

* * *

 

Stiles changes his shirt four times before their date, and ends up in the same one he started with. He’s ready early, anticipation making him jittery and nervous. He knows how dates go, but _knowing_ something and _doing_ it are two different things. He’s pretty sure Peter’s going to try and get him into bed, and that’s another thing he only knows about theoretically.

His dad watches him pacing round the living room for a few minutes before he says, “Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles is distracted, watching the door.

“Do me a favor and sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet, kid.”

Stiles sighs and sits down, but his leg continues to bounce up and down, restless. John puts a hand on his knee and stills it. “You sure you wanna go, kiddo? You can cancel.” Stiles looks up and sees his dad’s serious, and somehow that calms him a little.

“I want this. I’m nervous, I guess? Peter’s…he’s got all that power lurking just under the surface, you know? Like an iceberg.”

John smiles. “You like all that power,” he points out.

Stiles goes pink. He _does_ like it. He maybe has thoughts about Peter picking him up like he weighs nothing, and the thoughts make parts of him fizz and spark in ways they haven’t before.  He wants to see Peter let his wolf loose, wants to run a fingertip over those ears again, make Peter shudder under his touch, make him let out that low growl he’s heard once or twice.

He’s distracted from his pleasant daydream by a knock at the door. He leaps up and opens the door to see Peter standing there, all perfect and beautiful and sexy, and he feels a wave of something powerful, a desire to drag Peter away with him and discover exactly what those unused programs of his can do.

Peter seems to feel the same way, because he barely gives John a second glance, too busy looking Stiles up and down hungrily. “Hello, sweetheart, you look absolutely delicious. Ready to go?”

Stiles gives him a shy smile. “Yeah.”

Peter’s looking fairly delicious himself, thinks Stiles, in his low-cut v neck and leather pants. He looks like the best kind of bad idea, and Stiles can’t help but lean in and kiss him, even as his own boldness takes him by surprise. Peter tastes like fresh mint and smells like spice, and under it, Stiles can detect the scent of arousal. He closes his eyes and tilts his head, deepening the kiss and earning a moan, and the sound makes those unused circuits light up. Peter pulls away with a chuckle. “Oh, sweetheart. If that’s how our evening’s starting, do I want to know what you have planned for the rest of it?”

Stiles hears Peter’s heartrate pick up just a little, and grins to himself. At least he’s not the only one affected. “Play your cards right, and you might get lucky,“ he purrs, the phrase rolling off his tongue like silk, part of a long forgotten command sequence. Stiles realizes with a start that he was _made for this,_ quite literally, and his nerves melt away. He kisses Peter again, tangling his hands in his hair, holding him in place as Stiles explores his mouth, a thousand tiny receptors coming to life. “Maybe,” he pants out when they part, “We could skip the film?”

Peter looks delighted at the idea. “Maybe we could,” he purrs, breath hot on Stiles’s neck, sending a thrill up Stiles’s spine. “Maybe instead, we could go back to my place, and then, I could  strip - “

“And _then_ , you could get off my front porch,” John says firmly.  Stiles shoots him a guilty look, and John sighs. “Go out. Have fun. Just never, ever tell me the details, okay kid?”

Stiles lets Peter guide him out the door, grinning the whole time at the sensation of Peter’s hand warm against the small of his back. He grins even harder at the horrified look John shoots them when Peter calls out, “Don’t wait up, Sheriff.”

 

* * *

 

 

They skip the film.

Stiles is far more interested in getting Peter out of those leather pants, and Peter’s much more interested in running his hands over every inch of Stiles’s synthskin that he can touch. It turns out that Stiles’s choice of shirt didn’t matter after all – it ends up on the floor in minutes. In fact, it doesn’t even make it as far as the bedroom. As soon at they’re inside, Peter’s kissing and nuzzling at Stiles, nipping at his throat, leaving small marks that will fade overnight but that feel amazing, the tugging of Peter’s mouth against his neck making Stiles’s dick sit up and take notice. “ _Off, off, off,”_ Peter growls, tugging at Stiles’s shirt.

“You too,” Stiles challenges, pulling at Peter’s clothing desperately. He feels aflame with want, like if he doesn’t get to touch Peter’s bare skin he’ll go mad. Maybe it’s the desperation coursing through him that causes him to pull too hard, and rip the shirt right off Peter’s back.

There’s a moment’s silence as he regards the two pieces of fabric in his hands, and then Peter’s crowding him against a wall, growling low in his throat. “Fuck, Stiles. Do you know how hot it is, having someone who's as strong as I am? ” he growls out, and then he’s kissing Stiles hard, fangs just starting to peek out, and Stiles can feel Peter’s erection hard against him, can feel it throbbing, even through the tight leather.

New information assimilates. Oh. Peter _likes_ this.

Stiles tilts his head back so Peter can access his throat, and puts his hand on Peter’s ass, pulling him close, grinding their cocks together through their pants. Peters lets out another low growl, and bites down on Stiles’s collarbone, causing Stiles to gasp.

Stiles revels in the sting of Peter’s teeth – it’s sharp and sudden and perfect. Peter’s muscled chest is pressed against him, and his nostrils fill with the scent of _wolf_ and _sex_ and _want_. Stiles runs his fingernails down Peter’s torso, drawing a shiver from the wolf. He runs a finger over the points of Peter’s ears, remembering what Peter said, and sure enough, Peter lets out a pained groan. “Keep doing that, sweetheart, and I’ll come right here,” he warns.

Stiles grins evilly, slips a thigh between Peter’s legs for him to hump against, and does it again.

Peter ruts against his thigh desperately as Stiles uses both hands to tease the tips of his Were ears, and when Stiles dips his head and sucks a dark mark into the skin of Peter’s throat,  Peter thrusts once more, grunts, and stills. Peter’s breathing is rapid and shallow, and Stiles feels absurdly proud that he managed to make him come without even touching his dick. Peter takes a minute to catch his breath, but when he lifts his head, his smile is predatory. “Oh, sweetheart. You want to play with the big bad wolf?”

Stiles feels a hot pulse of want deep in his gut at that. He kisses Peter savagely, and his voice is thick with want when he says, “I want you to show me what I was made to do. And I don’t want you to hold back.”

Peter pulls back long enough to lift Stiles’s chin and gaze into his eyes. “Are you sure, sweet boy? Is that what you really want? Because I won’t lie, I’d love to spread you wide, knot your pretty ass ”

Stiles’s cock twitches and jerks at the thought of it, and he smirks at Peter, slow and lazy, and traces a finger tip over the shell of Peter’s ear. “I want it _all_.” 

Peter lets out one last growl, his grin almost all wolf now, and he grabs Stiles by the back of the thighs, lifts him like he weighs nothing, and carries him through to the bedroom. “Oh, you’ll get it all, sweetheart, trust me.”

Stiles laughs delightedly.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s after ten when Peter drops Stiles off the next morning. John’s on a day off, and when he hears Peter's car he opens the door, only  to be greeted by the sight of Stiles draped around Peter's neck, wearing what looks like one of Peter's shirts. Stiles looks glassy eyed and, for want of a better word, fuck-drunk, leaning into Peter’s side and placing random kisses on his cheek. Peter doesn’t look much better. He seems to have abandoned his normally impeccable grooming, there are bags under his eyes, and John could swear he’s limping.

John eyes him up, entertained despite himself. "I thought werewolves were supposed to be strong? Looking a little rough there, Peter."

Peter just gives a tired laugh. "Do you know what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object, John? It’s _exhausting._ "

Stiles nods, humming tiredly. "I'm his force.”

Peter kisses the side of Stiles’s head. “You certainly are, darling, and I adore you. Now go power down, hmm?” He pats Stiles on the rump and steers him inside.  John watches as Stiles pulls Peter in for one last utterly filthy kiss, before muttering, “Yeah, gotta power down now,” and shambling upstairs to his bedroom.

Peter waits till Stiles is out of earshot before telling John, “He’s run his power sources low, needs to rest.”

“You look like you’re running pretty low yourself,” John observes, a twinkle in his eye. Part of him likes the idea of Peter meeting his match.

Peter makes a vague hand gesture that might be agreement, John can’t tell. “Stiles was programmed with an extreme level of sexual stamina,  and he’s a competitive little shit. “

John shakes his head. “Spare me. Just tell me how long he needs to recharge for.”

Peter considers. “Leave him for the rest of the day.”

“And long do _you_ need to recharge for?” John asks, a smile playing round his lips.

Peter runs his hands down over his face. “I should be fine after I sleep for oh, a week.”

John snorts. “Did he _break_ you, Peter?”

Peter doesn’t even have it in him to make a smartass remark, which is how John knows he’s exhausted. “You know, I think he did. Worth it, though.”

Peter still has the energy to smirk.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles powers down for sixteen hours. When he wakes up, any doubts John might have had about his arrangement with Peter being consensual disappear. Stiles is _happy_. He bops around the house humming to himself, telling John that he had an awesome time, and sharing things John never wanted or needed to know about self-lubricating asses, werewolves, and knots.  

John has to give him a direct order never to mention it again.

Three days later, Stiles tells John he’s going out again with Peter and probably won’t be home that night, and his eyes are bright with excitement.

John takes the opportunity to eat fried chicken in guilt-free peace.

After all, why should Stiles and Peter be the only ones having a good time?

**Author's Note:**

> In a development that shocked nobody who knows me even slightly, I wrote a sequel.  
> It's straight up smut.  
> Not even sorry.  
> [Good Vibrations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17693306)


End file.
